


A Near Death Experience

by gayforgrunkle



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Pacing is a bitch but damn I'm trying, Will They, Won't they, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-02-18 08:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13096704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayforgrunkle/pseuds/gayforgrunkle
Summary: When the Joker is nearly murdered and Batman is one that must save him, both will come to realize that things (and people) are not always as they seem.





	1. A Near Death Experience

The Clown Prince of Crime, the madman that terrorized the streets of Gotham and sent the bravest of the GPD running for the hills, was dying in the gutter. He lay in the back alley of some ghetto bleeding out, slowly but surely. The thugs who had done the job were long gone by now -- they'd searched his pockets and only found a few Chuck E. Cheese coins and a Lonely Hearts ad torn out from some newspaper.

_"Clown with a great sense of humor seeking tall, dark, and handsome vigilante-type"_

They hadn't even recognized him. Maybe he was too old now, or maybe it was because the rain had washed away the majority of his makeup, or maybe it was just the dark of night had clouded his appearance. He wondered somewhere in his mind if they were a part of his criminal empire, some lower gang in connection with him, and he giggled at the irony of it. It took a lot out of him, however, for he started to wheeze and cough up blood. His stab wounds oozed, blood mixing with rainwater leaving him in a shallow puddle. Each breath was becoming labored and heavy. He wouldn't last much longer.

With a gloved hand, he reached into his suit pocket and brought out an archaic device -- a flip phone. He held it in his palm for a minute, pausing to consider if he wanted this. He had lived such a long, tumultuous life, full of lots of laughs and guttural screams. The end he was faced with wasn't exactly unfitting, if anything, it was sort of... funny. Greatness now so pathetic. If anything, it was the perfect way to die. But... he couldn't leave this world without seeing the Bat for one last time.

Joker dialed the appropriate digits and pressed the device to his face. He whistled to the melodious tones that followed.

"Wayne Manor. Mr. Wayne is busy at the moment, may I take a message?"

The Joker reveled with a giggle at the domesticity of it all.

"I didn't know you were doing secretarial work now, Alfred. Tell Bat _wayne_ or _Bruce_ Man or whatever his name is that I'm dying like a dog in the street and I don't think I'm going to survive the night, so if he could drop on by that would be just swell. I've got a few good Chuck E. Cheese tokens left in my pocket so I can certainly make it worth his while," he ended with a wet cough that lasted a solid thirty seconds, then a resounding minute of him dry heaving. A perfect performance.

Alfred Pennyworth was less than impressed and firmly cautious of the matter at hand. How the Joker knew Bruce's secret identity, or why he was employing this method of utilizing it, flabbergasted him. It crossed his mind, as it would anyone's, to ignore the Joker's call and tell Bruce nothing of it. After all, it could be a trap, a surprise attack. However, Alfred knew that if Bruce ever caught wind of it or the Joker was telling the truth, the results would be disastrous. It was better to take the chance, for Bruce's sake.

"The address?" he requested with all the politeness he could offer a dying murderer.

Joker, somewhat surprised but otherwise delighted, provided.

* * *

   
The BatMobile was tearing up lower Gotham like a speed racer, maxing his speedometer at levels Bruce Wayne wouldn’t think of. But this wasn’t Bruce Wayne. He was Batman.

He was already out on patrol when Alfred had called, a few neighborhoods away from the Joker, tying up a gang of thugs who were attempting to rob an innocent prostitute. These neighborhoods were riddled with crime and poverty. Silently he condemned himself for not donating more to social programs in this area.  _What's the use of all that money if I'm not going to do anything with it?_ he asked himself. The darkly-clad avenger scribbled out a note to himself on a Post-It and left it on the dashboard to serve as a reminder-- _"Donate, social programs, charity... scholarship?"_

However, none of that was of any importance now.

Rolling down the streets with the speed of a NASCAR driver, Bruce spotted the clown laying on the sidewalk and abruptly hit the breaks. The screech that resulted was ungodly: he would need new treads.

The Joker’s eyes were shut softly, the whites of his eyes still visible. Bruce took but a moment to observe the man’s gaunt face and lank form, wet with the rain and from his own blood. His chartreuse hair stuck to his forehead in curly ringlets. Bruce lifted him with an arm beneath his knees and an arm beneath his back as carrying a bride across the threshold. Almost like he was swaddling a baby, Bruce wrapped his cape around the clown to protect him from the onslaught of the rain and cold of the night.


	2. Wayne Bed&Breakfast

The Joker did not awake until the next morning. In the end, it was not Bruce’s fumbling to clean his wounds or Alfred’s protests at bringing him into the house, but the gentle daylight glittering through the curtains that awoke him. His eyes blinked open slowly. The guest bedrooms of Wayne Manor possessed an architectural style unlike any the Joker had ever known, with tall ceilings and ornate carvings of the furniture and walls. The bed was cushioned if not doubled cushioned and stuffed plentifully with pillows and blankets of every thickness imaginable. Truthfully, the setting was different than any he was used to.

He brought himself up with his hands only to hiss with the incredible pain that struck him. He looked down to discover his chest covered in wrappings and coated in gauze, going from his sternum to his hips like a medical corset. Tragically, he didn’t feel that sexy in it.

The Joker hadn’t expected such grandeur. All he had wanted was to see the old Bat, and he hadn’t even succeeded in that. Tell him one last joke or one last wish of bad will. Or perhaps… tell him something else. Though now on the road to recovery, the Joker felt a sense of disappointment.

But there he lay in Wayne Manor itself, almost like a welcome guest. He pressed his fingers to pouted lips to suppress a giggle. A guest in Batman’s home, and not a pair of handcuffs or a guard in sight. In a sense, he was free to do as he liked! Joker nearly threw himself out of bed before the crushing pain in his torso stopped him. _Almost_ free.

He sat there for an hour or so taking in the room, admiring the Wayne family crest above the oak door and the birch dresser at the far left of the room. At the foot of the bed sat an old pirate's chest that he spent some time rifling through only to find spare towels, a couple of bar soaps, and one of those long loofahs on a stick. Using this grand tool, the Joker reached out to move the curtains and approximate what floor he was on or any other information he could derive, but he could not reach. 

It was bound to happen; the Joker got bored sitting in his tower. “Oh, _Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat!_ ”, he cried out like a whiny child, “ _Bruceeeeey!_ ” He waited a few moments but received no reaction to his wails. With balled fists, he began to bang on the wall adjacent to the bed. “ **BRUCE WAYNE--!!** ”

Alfred opened the bedroom door abruptly, one arm behind his back in proper etiquette and the other on the knob. Popping his head in, he said, “Master Wayne is out on business and will be home momentarily. I suggest you refine your patience or you’ll be sent back to Arkham Asylum faster than you can blink.” He began to shut the door before he stopped and remembered his manners, or at least, what Bruce would want of him. With a level of British propriety that the Queen herself would be proud of, he asked the clown, “Do you need anything?”

The Joker blinked in shock before assuming character. Stroking his chin thoughtfully, he said, “I could really use some water in my favorite crystal wine glass with a cheese board and a side of caviar, Jeeves.” Alfred rolled his eyes and shut the door.

 _Well, that wasn't very polite,_  the Joker thought with a wide grin plastered on his face. He was starting to enjoy this.

However, Gotham’s #1 enemy (asides, of course, itself) was somewhat disappointed with his stay at the Wayne Bed-and-Breakfast thus far. He had not seen or spoke to the old Bat even once, and only had this butler to entertain him. The entire point of calling ( _for help_ , he thought, disgusted) now seemed quite mute. He wouldn’t be leaving a very nice review, that was for damn sure.

Suddenly a wave of fatigue and nausea struck him like a bolt of lightning. He felt as though his chest would cave in on itself if he did not lay down soon. That, or he might puke up his intestines. Somewhat reluctantly, he laid his head down and slept.

When he awoke again the light trickling through his window was gone and replaced by limp moonlight. He rolled away from the window towards the nightstand, where Alfred had left a glass of water in a plastic wine glass, as well as a few crackers and a package of jello. Joker partook in the treats (he had no idea if it ought to be breakfast or dinner) and then laid back down to sleep.

The next time he awoke, the first thing he saw was the dark shadow of a man at the foot of his bed.


	3. The Interrogation

Batman stared down the Joker like a warden at a fresh prisoner. He was in full uniform, dressed for action. Only his eyes and mouth were bare. The window for whatever reason lay open as if Batman had broken into his own home. His cape billowed from the chilly winds that flowed through. The Joker, not to be intimidated, cackled maniacally.

"So you've shown up at last?", he snorted happily, "You don't need to wear all that you know. I already know your secret identity, Brucey." The clown pointed a waving finger and gave the Bat an exaggerated wink, almost like a mother teasing a naughty child. _I know what you've been up to_ , he seemed to say.

Bruce's eyes glinted in the moonlight, the only evidence besides his dark shadow that there was another person in the room besides the Joker.

As he took a step forward, his shadow loomed behind him like a ghost. The Joker felt enthralled by the raw, powerful presence of the old Bat. He could crush him like this, injured and vulnerable as he was. The possibilities were exhilarating.

"It doesn't matter that you know my identity. I want to know what you plan to do with it," the man in black retorted coldly.

"That's really no way to speak to an honored guest," the Joker replied with a sultry smile, folding his arms behind his head and puffing out his chest. He was topless without the collection of bandages. "You've treated me with the utmost care, after all. Isn't that right?" he looked at Batman with hooded eyes.

“You better be careful,” the clown continued, “People might begin to talk… they might think you like me,” he ended with a slow lick of his upper lip.

"I'm not afraid to send you back to Arkham."

The Joker turned to lay on his stomach, kicking up his feet at the knee and holding his head in his hands. The pressure on his stab wounds, undeniably, was excruciating, but at least he looked cute. He rolled his eyes and said to the shadow, "Do it then, see where it gets you." Beneath the covers, however, the clown fidgeted with his fingers nervously.

Bruce had to admit the truth of the statement, sending him to Arkham would not solve this mystery or help either of them.

Wayne took a moment of pause, crooking his head to the side like a cat. "Who attacked you?" he asked finally.

The Joker was surprised at the bluntness of the question and had no idea as to its relevance. "...I don't know,” the clown evaded, “Some low brow thugs looking to earn a quick dollar ended up stabbing an extremely powerful clown. It’s an everyday happenstance." He grinned from ear to ear.

The interrogation was on. Bruce continued without a beat, "What were you doing in that part of town?"

"Going for a walk to clear my head. Murderers have problems too, you know," the Joker replied, with special enunciation on the last two words. He let out a girlish giggle and, like a playful puppy, pulled the covers over his head. Secretly, he hoped Batman would try to uncover him so they could play a little game.

Wayne, however, was not amused. "Without any of your underlings? Unarmed? Did anyone know you were there?", he commanded the words like a true authoritarian.

"Curiosity killed the Bat, Brucey," the Joker said, pulling off the covers with a pout. This wasn't how the game was supposed to go.

Wayne was aghast. The circumstances made no sense -- the Joker had put himself in a vulnerable situation to meet what end? True, he now had a point of advantage as he was inside Wayne Manor, but clearly, he knew this to be Batman's home prior to his rescue as was demonstrated with his call to Alfred. And if Bruce had chosen not to save him? If the call had not gotten to him, if he was ignored? Was the Joker willing to die for the chance..?

Disregarding that possible motive, why would he be in that neighborhood so late at night with little to no protection if he had some other ulterior aim? The Joker, with all his usual antics, made less sense than ever. There had to be an underlying reason... A plot or a terrorist attack underway.

"I need your cooperation," he uttered slowly, exploring every syllable, holding his chin between his thumb and first knuckle. The clown was briefly reminded of classic Film Noir detectives, of their low, smooth voices, their passion for the truth, and their... chiseled good looks. For but a moment he had a glimpse of some memory long since past.

It was not long however before the Joker howled with laughter, guffawing wildly, "You're asking for my cooperation?! Me, the kookiest basketcase in all of Gotham?! You must be battier than I am!"

Wayne stared at the insane mess of giggles and snorts in front of him. _No_ , he thought, _just optimistic_.


	4. It's Not Orange Jell-O

It had been several days since the clown and the man in black had spoken. In that time, the former had counted all the way to a thousand (twice), made a miniature pillow fort (and then ruined it), and mastered pretending to be dead (to the disdain of Alfred). The latter had not shown his face.  
  
Each day the Joker ate a few variations of the same meal (the Jell-O being his favorite), provided by Alfred (usually when he was sleeping). Each day he played with the medical wrappings around his chest, often tying them into cutesie bows. And each day, he quietly prayed that he would be visited by the old Bat once again.  
  
Clearly, Batman had better things to do than consort with a known killer. The Joker often fantasized what 'Bruce Wayne' might be up to -- perhaps he was signing a new contract, settling a foreign investment, or attending an art gala. He remembered faintly reading a magazine about Wayne's playboy habits, always with this model or that lady tennis player, such and such actress or so and so heir to fortune. A tear of anger split in the Joker somewhere deep. To torture himself, he would imagine Wayne's lavish affair with some young hot assistant of Wayne Enterprises, their secret kisses and secret love and of Bruce caring for her dearly above all else -- if he thought on it too long, he broke out in hives. He did this at least three times a day.  
  
He felt dry. He felt ignored. He didn't want to be there, and yet there was no place he would rather be. Sitting there day in and day out was a terrible lack of excitement, and he thrived on excitement. How could he be so close to Batman and yet so far? If it went on much longer... He imagined tearing the wooden furniture apart, ripping apart the linens with his teeth, and jumping from the window.  
  
At night he dreamt of far-off memories. He dreamt of his worst nightmares, of Batman sleeping with some dame in the very home he was now in, he dreamt of hearing them through the walls and screaming to try to block it out. In his dreams, his ears bled and their drums burst. Sometimes he dreamt of battles long since past -- especially of their earliest ones. Each dream was different but of a common vein: always there was some fresh piece of flesh or some new hellish circumstance, and always there was Batman.  
  
It had been so different before the Joker discovered Bruce Wayne, when he only knew Batman.  
  
The Joker now lay on his back, upside down on the bed. That is to say, feet on the pillows. He was listening to and chittering quietly in unision with a dialog clock on his nightstand. His eyes were crossed, and had been for ten minutes. It was starting to be very painful, but he was going for the world record.  
  
This was when Bruce Wayne stepped in.  
  
The clown heard the slow creak of the door and felt himself get excited. In his most elated tone, and without looking up, he asked, "You got the orange flavored Jell-O, Alfie? I tell you, I've got a real hankering for the stuff."  
  
There was no reply.  
  
"...Alfred?"  
  
A cool, deep voice responded. "It's not Alfred," it said.  
  
The Joker violently lurched from his position like an electrocuted cat and disgracefully fell from the bed. The floorboards shuddered loudly. He emitted a low groan from the horrible pain that resulted -- he was certain one of his wounds had reopened. All in all, not a glorious movement.  
  
Before he knew it, Bruce was upon the clown and lifting him back into bed. He set a pillow underneath the clown's head delicately.  
  
"You're going to hurt yourself," he muttered softly.  
  
For the first time, the Joker was seeing Bruce Wayne in person. His jaw, of course, the clown knew very well -- heavily defined, sharp, at a 5 o'clock shadow. Those eyes, he knew them well, too; a stormy grey bordering on an ocean blue. Every other feature was new... Visually, at least. A sharp, Roman nose, high cheekbones, hair black as coal. It was no wonder he was the patron saint of gossip magazines from Gotham to Metropolis, the man was a god!  
  
"How are your wounds?", the god asked the pious clown.  
  
"Bleeding... A lot."  
  
Empirically, Bruce examined the injuries one by one, "A three-inch stab broke one of your ribs on the right side. A two-inch stab in the hypogastric region. A cut from your sternum to your umbilical, three centimeters wide at the most. That's got to hurt."  
  
The clown let out a silly guffaw, "I have been feeling a little under the weather, yeah."  
  
"You need more disinfectant," Wayne determined. He set out to clean the wounds and dress them anew.  
  
"I should think so, these bandages haven't been changed in days."  
  
"I change them when you sleep," Wayne calmly corrected.  
  
"You **_what_ _?_** "  
  
"Did you think we were just letting you rot in here?"  
  
He _had_ thought that. Wayne delicately lifted up the clown and rolled him onto his stomach to examine the damage to his back.  
  
"How long have you known?", he asked passively.  
  
Joker moved back onto his back to look at his archnemesis.  
  
"Ever since I robbed that bank on State Avenue a few years back. I blew up the place like it was the Fourth of July. You were knocked out by the explosion," the clown paused to knock his head comically with a lazy fist, "You remember?"  
  
He did.  
  
"...you looked beneath my cowl?" Bruce demanded.   
  
"No. Never," the clown said, feeling as though he had been accused of a very grand sin.  
  
"Then how?"  
  
The Joker's explanation was simple. "I felt your face with my hands. You know, like blind people do?" He accompanied the statement with a jazz hand display, wiggling his fingers rhythmically.  
  
The clown explained. He remembered the incident like a dream, wavy and emotional, rolling. The bomb had gone off too early (probably some faulty wiring... the clown had only learned from a Youtube video an hour prior, after all). The explosion that followed sent himself and the old Bat into the walls. The clown had broken a rib but was otherwise fine, Batman, however... he lay still as a rock. The Joker broke out into hysterics, terrified of what he may have done. He felt as if his will to live funneled into a whirlpool of nothingness and died there.  
  
Once he realized his archenemy was fine (thank goodness) besides a few minor bruises... The clown became curious.  
  
He removed his gloves for the ceremony, impatiently tossing them aside. With his eyes tightly closed, he pulled off the Bat's cowl and felt what was underneath.  
  
First, with his fingertips, he drifted slowly over each feature to understand its topography. Forehead, brows, eyelids, nose...  
  
" _Jeezum Crow_ , does this guy have **any** pores?", the clown asked himself. The Bat's skin was like silk.  
  
Then, he pressed his palms to the man's cheeks and felt... Stubble. Not what the Joker was picturing, but still quite acceptable.  
  
"What else?", he thought. His thumbs went instinctively to the man's lips... The clown gasped. They were soft and curved, smooth like marble. He rolled the pad of his thumb over the flesh repeatedly. The lips of a cherub, the lips of a Greek statue. Strong, and handsome too? Jesus Christ, the Bat had won the genetic lottery.   
  
His fingers made their way to the man's scalp to feel his hair. He ruffled the locks experimentally. It was soft and... curly? No, wavy... and thick. This guy wasn't going bald anytime soon, that was for sure.  
  
The clown was tempted to do more, but Batman began to stir -- so he returned the cowl and bounced.  
  
Of course, the Joker spared Bruce many of these details.  
  
"...but how did you know who I was?" Bruce interjected.  
  
The Joker chuckled, "I read a lot of trashy gossip zines -- how did you think I come up with all of my plots?"  
  
"I... _What?"_ Bruce stammered, speechless. The idea that the puzzles that he spent so much of his life solving were derived from gossip magazines was a little... humbling.   
  
The clown sighed. Sometimes the World's Greatest Detective could be really dense. "You have a scar on your left eyebrow, a pretty big one, too. It's all over _Gotham Now_ , they have a column about you every issue. I must have seen a thousand pictures of you. Coupled with your other features... I recognized you."  
  
Bruce blinked a few times, shocked.  
  
"That and when I called Wayne Manor, you came, so...", the Joker shrugged.  
  
After a pause, Wayne looked away. His secret identity had taken this nutbar a gossip magazine and a grope to uncover. It was a lot to take in. He commented, casually, "...you need a bath."  
  
"What?", the Joker replied with confusion.  
  
"You've been cooped up in here for a week," Bruce began to rifle through the pirate's chest for the necessary materials, "You're developing an odor." He smirked. His smile was hidden from the clown by the chest's open top.  
  
Self consciously, the clown touched his face and felt the last remainders of his face paint, all nearly gone. Looking down, he noticed the raw texture of his skin -- the bandages hadn't done him any favors. He could use a spa day.  
  
"Some would call it a musk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I've been updating this fic everyday, but if that starts to slow down it will likely be weekly at the least. If you enjoyed the chapter, have any questions or anything at all to say, please (please) please leave a comment and I will reply ASAP!


	5. Gossip in the Bathroom

Bruce Wayne, literal billionaire, caring philanthropist, and dedicated businessman had thought he could handle this. He was able to handle most situations with a level of tact unparalleled by his peers, hero or otherwise. He was not proud of this, for Wayne was proud of very little about himself or his situation, but he was aware of his stoic nature and general nonchalance. Bruce Wayne, World's Greatest Detective and Gotham's most heroic masked vigilante, had thought incorrectly.  
  
Sometimes in this life, we believe things about ourselves that simply are not true. This was the thought running through Bruce Wayne's head as he watched the pale clown undress for the bath Wayne had prepared for him. Or rather, tried desperately not to.  
  
Over the last few days, he and Alfred had been changing out the clown's linens, both the ones he wore and the ones he slept on. The clown was fully (if not mostly) able to dress himself without anyone else's help, so they had been leaving his changes of clothes on the nightstand. They did not want to deny a man his dignity.  
  
However, the present situation was somewhat different. The Joker would need help getting in and out of the bath. Certainly, he would not be able to reach every part of himself that needed cleaning. And there still remained the question if he could be trusted alone -- in the guest room, there was a locked door and windows and padded surfaces everywhere. Not only that, but he had healed significantly since he first came. Could he be left alone with running water, several brands of soap, and a loofah? Bruce didn't want to find out.  
  
The only other option was a sponge bath, and that (Wayne shuddered to think of it)... would be a whole other level of personal and embarrassing.  
  
But now, watching the Joker remove his patient's pajamas while sitting on the side of the bathtub... For one of the very few times in his life, Bruce Wayne was blushing at the cheeks like a schoolgirl. Some part of him wished he had a crossword or a book with him, anything that would make him look like he was busy and not grossly staring at the other man.  
  
The process was slow and unpleasant. It was clear that every movement gave the Joker some degree of pain, and that he could really use a hand. Already his shirt had left his chest bare, but his pants had barely left his thighs, and his underwear had not even been thought of. The clown rustled with the pants for a moment, each shuffle causing a low whimper. Bruce could feel his pity grow two sizes larger, he had not known it was this difficult for the clown to dress himself. Quietly he resented that fact he had left the clown alone for so long. Before he could think any further on the matter, he asked,  
  
"Do you need any help with that?"  
  
The Joker turned to him with wide eyes. Bruce, on the other hand, did not shift position in the least and continued to stare at the wall. There was an awkward silence between the two as the clown's mind ran rampant. How could he come up with a smooth reply to such a question quickly? He felt as though his stomach was becoming an ugly combination of complete and utter delight with anxious sickness -- he needed a joke and he needed one fast or this was going to get weird.  
  
"If you'll be real gentle, Nurse," he let out a tender giggle and a wink. Bruce cringed noticeably but was not deterred, he knew the Joker quite well and this was nothing new. Slowly, Wayne stood up and paced to the side of the tub where the Joker sat, kneeling before him as if about to propose.  
  
"Lean back," was all he said. The clown obeyed, placing his hands behind him to place his weight towards his core, almost in a slouch.  
  
The billionaire took the pants by each side and tugged them down the clown's slender yet shapely legs. He refused to let his stare linger on the clown's inner thighs (which from a quick glance he determined to be a light pink in juxtaposition with the Joker's otherwise white skin) and curved calves. Bruce would not meet his eyes throughout the act.  
  
The Joker, however, could not get his eyes off Bruce. He watched every movement of the quiet, clearly uncomfortable, man. Accidentally (as much as the Joker wished it wasn't so), Bruce rubbed the pad of his thumb against the clown's sensitive inner leg. The other man had hardly noticed the touch, he was far too busy pretending as if he wasn't there at all.  
  
"Oh god," the Joker thought, "Oh Jesus Christ. _Oh no_. **No** ," he kept thinking. It was just a thumb. It was an accident. But the poor clown was so touch-starved that he felt himself harden from the meager stroke, and perhaps too the image that it conjured to his mind. He felt himself glow a deep red. He had been fantasizing about becoming better acquainted with the old Bat throughout the entire week he had been staying at Wayne Manor, but he could have never imagined the two of them would find themselves in this situation.  
  
It was official, the pants were off. The Joker sat in only his underwear and half-hard, sitting in front of a kneeling Batman. By some miracle of coincidence, both villain and hero at the same thought (and for different reasons): _It would look really bad if Alfred walked in right now._  
  
Bruce Wayne was no man to leave a job half-finished. Without thinking, and still looking to the far-left, he brought his strong hands to the waistband of the clown's underwear, fully ready to expose him fully. The material tugged uncomfortably on the clown's erection. It was not until Wayne was finding it difficult to disrobe him further due to the material's constraints that the reality of the situation occurred to him. His face went a blood red and his hands began to shake, and for the first time he looked up into the clown's chartreuse eyes. There was a moment of airborne electricity between the two.  
  
The Joker, for obvious reasons, was in a state of panic -- this was a Code Red.  
  
_"Woah there_ , soldier! Think I can handle that myself," he said, laughing it off awkwardly. He placed his hands on the Bat's and gave them back to their owner. "You might have lost these?", he commented with a chuckle.  
  
Wayne, just as awkwardly and painfully, laughed too. He nervously tugged at his collar and returned to his post, standing on the other side of the bathroom. His mind felt as if it was on fire -- was the clown hard? He felt a lick of exhilaration in his core at the very idea but stifled it deep, deep down. Nevertheless, he relived the moment repeatedly in his mind. First, the tug of his bulge, then his mouthwatering gaze... _No, no!_ he thought to himself, _it couldn't have been, it wouldn't have been, it shouldn't have been. There is no way in hell that this delirious court-jester has anything close to feelings for me_ , he paused to think over the many times the Joker had attempted to murder him, and then continued the thought, _and I have nothing but care for his general well-being, as I would for any other person._ And with that, Bruce chose to ignore the incident altogether and ponder future business ventures.  
  
The Joker, given this time, was able to remove the underwear on his own. To protect any further indiscretions, he covered himself partially with a hand towel. He looked up to the Bat for unspoken permission to proceed into the bath. On the other side of the bathroom, the other man's eyes were glazed over and his entire face a rosy hue.  
  
"Hey, uh, Bruce or whatever?", the clown called. Bruce's head snapped in the Joker's direction. The clown sat with one leg bent on the side of the tub and the other leg lax, a handcloth settled between his two thighs. Wayne was lost for words for a moment. Finally, he fumbled for the words, "...Yes?"  
  
Noticing the luster in the old Bat's eyes, the Joker asked the other man with a sultry whisper, "Mind helping a damsel in distress?" He placed one hand over the handcloth suggestively.  
  
Wayne nodded and rushed to the clown's side. The latter kept the handcloth firmly in place, palm against himself. Tentatively, Wayne held the Joker under his armpits and allowed to clown to support himself with his legs. After a few moments of struggle and splash of water, the clown was safely in the tub. Wayne sat criss-cross next to the bath and tried his best to look like he had a reason for being there.  
  
"You got any bubble bath stuff?", the clown inquired, "Perhaps some rubber duckies?"  
  
Bruce scoffed and shook his head. He wasn't a man of such pleasures.  
  
"So much for a billionaire," the Joker jeered playfully.  
  
There were a few moments of quiet in the third-floor second guest bathroom of Wayne Manor where only the reticent drip-drops of water from the faucet could be heard. Neither of them dared to say a single word as the clown went through the motions of bathing. Bruce mindlessly tapped a beat on his thigh and whistled low, pretending to look out at a window on the far wall.  
  
The Joker was mulling over funny quips to say, or some entertaining prospect of conversation -- Really, anything that would replace the awkward of the quiet between them. He thought over pop culture references, puns, idioms, anything that would apply to the present situation before he finally settled on something malleable, provocative, and delicious.  
  
The clown lay on his stomach in the bath, imitating a mermaid with his feet in the air, his elbows supporting his torso. He glanced over at Bruce who was staring at him out of the corner of his eye before harshly looking away. The Joker smiled like a lunatic.  
  
"You know, Brucey...", he began, "I got real invested in celebrity rumors and scandals after reading all those issues of _Gotham Now_."  
  
Bruce smiled. The idea of a terrorist dressed up like a circus entertainer enjoying (not only reading but _enjoying_ ) gossip magazines felt almost paradoxical to him. "Oh yeah?", Wayne asked.  
  
"Mmhm. Very invested. I read up on all the models and singers and actors of Gotham. It's an excellent way to learn more about the buzz of a city," the clown said, folding his arms on the rim of the tub to get a better look at Wayne. His mouth was a number of inches away from the other man's ear.  
  
Bruce looked away from the wall to get a glimpse of the Joker. Upon realizing the man's nudity could not be seen, he continued his gaze, though blushing slightly at the proximity between them. "Of course," he said conversationally.  
  
"Well, everybody who reads those magazines has a favorite. The celebrity you just love to read about -- even if it is a bit... scandalous." The Joker drew out the last word with a slow lick to his upper lip. The two's eyes were locked, the space between them seemed to shorten and shorten still -- Bruce couldn't look away this time.  
  
The clown didn't wait for a response. "You want to know my favorite?", he asked, seemingly rhetorically. His pupils were wide and wild and inviting. He moved in ever closer to the Bat, their noses almost touching for a moment. His voice felt warm and suggestive to the man on the other side of the bathtub, carnal and concupiscent. All Bruce could do was nod.  
  
The Joker rose from the tab up to his chest, glimmering with water and soap suds. Bruce looked up at him, watchful but overwhelmingly curious. Slowly the clown leaned down to the other man and took him by the collar, lifting him up until they were eye-to-eye. Bruce was on his knees.  
  
Looking deeply into Bruce's eyes, the Joker said with a sensual grin, "I always sorta had a thing for that Bruce Wayne fella."


	6. Awkward

Bruce Wayne didn’t know what to think – that would require thinking, and he didn’t want to do that either. Thinking meant relaying the events in his head and coming to some sort of conclusion. The only thinking he would do that would reach any result was this: he would not think remotely about what happened between him and the clown.

It was awkward and ugly-sounding, but when the Joker had said those words, Wayne had stood up and said only, “I think we need more towels,” then promptly left the room. He had not returned. Worse than that, he had not returned to the clown’s quarters in two days. Alfred had been feeding him, of course, but the bat and the clown had not looked into each other’s eyes since that evening in the bathroom.

He knew that the Joker was healing up, which was good, and that he was beginning to read some of the novels Wayne had left in his bedside drawer, which was also good. “ _So, then, all is well,”_ he thought. Wayne was determined not to be worried about the man recovering from stab wounds.

It wasn’t really in Bruce’s character to run away from a situation as he had. Well, clearly it was, as he had done it, but it was an unusual smudge in his usual crystal-clear confidence. Often, when his idle mind brought him to think about the clown, he found himself wanting to apologize for abandoning him. Abandonment is a strong word… _Had he abandoned the clown?_ It was just another question stewing in his mind.

The answer was simple. Bruce need only think of what must have come after him leaving, the clown’s pouted lips and downturned eyes, of him, waiting for Wayne to return and being disappointed when he never would, of the poor clown tucking himself into bed and wondering when Bruce would return _if_ he would ever return…

But Wayne promised himself he wouldn’t think about it.

 

* * *

 

The Joker was another case. Ever since the old Bat had left him alone with the soap suds and the linoleum floor, he had not been able to sleep a wink. He drew himself from the tub, wrinkled and pruned from the time he had waited, then drying and dressing himself. The bed was plenty comfy, but his body seemed to ache as it had not before, though his wounds were healing. He would close his eyes, count backward from ten, then imagine all the sheep in the world, but nothing would come of it. Sooner or later, he gave up and started reading the books the Bat had left for him. Before, he had not even considered touching them, but now he had no other real method of entertainment. If anything, they were one way of him seeing the Bat again. Besides, he did not want to spend these hours awake wondering how he had driven the Bat away.

In the mornings, Alfred would bring in his breakfast on a platter. The Joker would hide beneath the pillows and close his eyes, pretending to be asleep. A slice of apple, crepes, a glass of orange juice, and a few strawberries. It was very fruity and very sweet. He wondered whether Alfred knew somehow, but it wasn’t possible. He ate his breakfast slowly, thinking…

That had been the first day, a day of peace and tranquility compared to the second. Minutes stretched before him like miles on some psychedelic road trip, he was agonizingly aware of every second, each more than the last. It was as if he was being bled out, but his blood was patience, and he was being pumped chalk full of hyper-awareness. Each moment was regretful, and the next moment was more regretful. The books were good, though.

And so he ended up getting a horrible headache on the first day from reading three books in succession and then lying in bed for eight hours straight, not sleeping at all. The second day was worse.

His eyes became strained and veiny red. At some point in the night, he started tapping the wooden side of the bed, just to hear something, anything at all. _Tap, tap, tap…_ _Tap, tap, tap._ Where was the Bat tonight? He found himself wondering it over, and over, and over… An echo uttered between the walls, a pair of footsteps… Here, he was, here… But not here. It was not until blood dripped from his lip that he noticed he had been gnawing at his lips.

He was still tapping three hours later. He stared blankly up at the ceiling, listening to the tapping closely – reimagining the look on the Bat’s face, _Tap, tap, tap…_ the confusion and fear in his eyes _, Tap, tap_ , the blank words about towels or something… _Tap._

An ear-splitting screech emitted from the side of the wooden bed, a deep three-pronged scratch left there, and wood chippings stuck beneath the clown’s nails, drawing blood. It was not going to be a good day.

When Alfred opened the guest room door that morning, the books the clown had been reading were ripped to shreds and their papers scattered everywhere, there were scratch marks across the walls and the wood of the bed, the sheets were torn and the pillows destroyed, and the Joker nowhere to be seen.


	7. Sincerely, Best, Cordially, Yours.

It hadn’t been hard for him. Escaping, that is. Once he summoned the strength to rise out of bed (which in a crazed frenzy isn’t so very difficult at all), he found it quite easy. He discovered, upon rifling through the contents of a few drawers in that beautiful dresser, a few items of stationary useful in their utilization of penmanship. He wrote the following on a lovely piece of stock paper with a curved embellishment in the corners:

_My most dear ~~Bastie~~ Batsy,_

_I have so genuinely missed you these past few days you have been gone. Away at war, away cheating, away on business, or perhaps just running away from me – I’ll never know. Out of (I’m sure) your deepest generosity, you have selected to leave me without warning as to your absence. You can suspect, ~~I’m sure~~ , the stifling effect this had had on my most precarious of sanities. I am, ~~of course~~ , feeling completely off-the-walls, gnawing-at-wood bonkers as of late due to your most ~~charitable~~ ~~sweet~~ l ~~oving~~ sudden leave of me. Should you ~~ever~~ find yourself in want or need of my company, I find it best that you pursue some other manner of satisfaction because, as is the common term, you have run this river dry. Good day to you, and give my best greetings and consolations to your secretary. Not Alfred, forgive me, but the one at your bedside. Thank you, again and forever, for my gracious stay at your loving abode._

_~~Sincerely,~~ ~~Best~~ , ~~Cordially~~ , ~~Yours~~ , _

_~~LOVE,~~ _

_The JOKER_

Bruce Wayne stood stunned in the entrance of the once prim-and-proper guest bedroom, letter in hand. It was written with an elegant touch and an almost startling demonstration of the Joker’s vocabulary and syntax. Wayne read it over and over again, pausing only to scan his eyes over the mangled room. The books he had given the clown were destroyed. The mattress was flipped over and looked as if it had been ripped into by a grizzly bear. Bruce tried to conceive some manner of how the Joker ripped open a mattress, but once he saw the lipstick stains, it was all too obvious. Suddenly Bruce regretted leaving that cylinder in the clown’s bedside drawer.

Above all, he regretted leaving him alone so long. It wasn’t a man’s business, he thought, to be kept so long in his own head when he had duties, responsibilities to attend to. He looked back down at the letter and read the last three lines closer, reading each scratched out word carefully…

He smiled in that embarrassed way that is really more of a grimace, and some color came to his cheeks before quickly washing away again. God, what was he going to do?


	8. Piss, Blood, and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes events repeat themselves until something goes right.

It had been a week since the disappearance of the Joker and Bruce was beyond worried. He had gone past that into the stage of acceptance or at least had kept that image for himself. All he could think of was that the fact that the Joker was no longer in his sights and worse than, he knew his true identity. What the clown would do next was anyone's guess.

But more than that, in the pit of his stomach, perhaps, he worried (in that general concern one holds for all humankind, of course) for the Joker's wounds, and if he was healed enough, or if he had shelter...

As with most of his (unacceptable, as he viewed them) concerns, Bruce pushed away the worries to the back of his mind for something else.

On another note, he had kept the letter on him ever since reading it. It had an antique eloquence to it, he felt, that bore rereading. Clearly, the Joker had read the copy of _Pride & Prejudice_ that Bruce had left him, for the letter had that after tone. Though he would (without thought) help Gotham, Bruce couldn't help himself from the torture that was glancing over that paragraph again and again.

Now, sitting in the BatCave with the letter in hand, he pressed his thumb against the indent of the careful calligraphy. Bruce gave himself the excuse that he was looking for a hidden code, but that wasn't it. The Joker's cursive was messy and at some spots hardly legible, but there was a chaotic perfection there. Bruce wondered idly when the last time he had drafted a handwritten note but could conjure up no recent memory.

Rerouting his stream of consciousness, Wayne thought on the Joker's escape. The door appeared untouched (there was no sign of a break-in or rather, a break-out), as did the locks on the windows. It was uncharacteristic of the Joker not to have a violent escape. The carnage lay in the room alone. What of that..?

Bruce supposed it didn't truly matter, but the Detective in him couldn't overlook the puzzle. It reminded him faintly of something he had read once, or a riddle he had heard. Perhaps, he chuckled at the thought, the Joker had not broken out at all, but was still in the house: hiding beneath the floorboards or setting up camp in the basement like a raccoon. At least, Bruce ruminated while stroking the letter, in some ways, the Joker had not left...

* * *

 

Another dark and dreary night in Gotham, its most vile villain once again on a stroll. It was the very same street he had been stabbed on about two weeks or so prior. He didn't know what he was hoping for by returning. He wasn't exactly "trying to clear his head" as, when one is mentally disturbed, that doesn't really happen. The exercise of the walk, indeed, was nothing to him, as every step gave him a phantom ache in his stab wounds. And yet, he was there.

He wished, silently, that he had brought the necessary stationary to write another letter. This one more poetic than the last. Alas, he had not. He kicked an empty can absentmindedly.

He had not returned to his empire in the week since he had left Wayne Mansion. They likely thought he was on another one of his benders, or else assumed he was dead. It wasn't an unwarranted assumption. He wondered if someone else had taken charge by now, perhaps Harley, and what sort of schemes they were cooking up. No part of him really wanted to return. It didn't feel fun anymore.

There was a sort of edge before when Batman didn't know that the Joker knew who he was. There was a tenacious tension between them, then. But now, the Joker didn't want to face him. Perhaps that was why he couldn't (or rather, wouldn't) return to crime for now. The mystery just wasn't there anymore. No, not the mystery... something else.

It was a funny thing. There is a mystery to romance that is abandoned when feelings are admitted or rejections given, something raw and powerful about the whole thing that makes it so exciting. Crime is the same way, really. Getting caught isn't fun. Being pent up isn't fun. What is fun is the feeling of running through alleyways, being chased by the pigs, being unsure of whether you're going to get away or not. Yes, the Joker thought, that's the exciting bit. But he didn't feel excited anymore.

Everything felt so ugly and pragmatic all of the sudden. He was getting older. He didn't know how long they had been at this, but it felt like millennia. It felt like a bedtime story that a parent tells differently each night. It felt as if every reincarnation ever had occurred on these streets. The Joker stopped walking and took an inventory of his surroundings. How many times had he been here? How many times had he been faced with the decision in front of him? How many times had he been tempted? He was hyperaware of it and that was driving him mad: he didn't want to know.

He was murmuring something like a prayer to himself. Away from the main street, he huddled into an alley between two close-knit buildings. It smelled like piss and blood and fire: the building blocks of life. He didn't want to admit it to himself but maybe the last time hadn't been an accident. Maybe he had known what he was asking for by wandering alone at night in a bad neighborhood, unarmed. Maybe that was what he was asking for now. He sat down on his knees and folded in his hands in a prayer position. The clown prayed to no god but the Christ of Chaos and the Lord of Mischief, and above all else, for his life's purpose. And then, he waited.


	9. Roses in the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a waltz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a lot of writing passion this lost few days that's sort of exploded on here, hope y'all don't mind. If you like it, please comment and let me know, as it's very inspiring for future chapters. I try not to lose inspiration, but it can be hard without feedback. Thank you for reading, in any case, I love you all.

For the last week, Bruce Wayne had been attending his regular board meetings and filing his usual paperwork. He had been having tea with Alfred to try and work through this catastrophe, but Alfred had fewer answers than he did. What were they suppose to say, anyway? _Too bad that criminal clown we let in our house decided to escape and ruin the guest bedroom, a real bummer. Is what he does next morally our fault?_  
  
Otherwise, things had gone on as usual. It was astonishing to Bruce how small the Joker's role in his life had been this last week, but how big it felt. Somehow, by accident, the Joker had been the center of his world. It was bizarre. They had known each other so long, and yet... it wasn't until now that Bruce was feeling the true effect of it.  
  
He felt, too, as if he was beginning to understand the Joker a little more. Just the other day -- at the office -- his secretary had been asking for some paperwork or some other manner of boring work but was managing to flirt with him shamelessly throughout. Cleavage, etc, the whole nine yards. She couldn't be blamed either, he had never spurned her affections before. He hadn't even realized that she was flirting. Had she always flirted with him? The Joker's words rang heavy in his ears...  
  
It was the pitter-patter of rain that led Bruce to believe something was off. He was sitting in the drawing room, which was really a too-big-for-its-britches living room, for what was the first time in a long time, when he heard it. It came down gently at first, and then violently like bullets against the ground. He felt himself seize up and turn to the window, watching the drops' downward path. After a few seconds, he realized he was holding his breath.  
  
He stood up quickly to get a closer look at it. The rain streamed down in little ringlets on the window, through which Bruce admired the garden's rose maze below. The maze was one of those which had no "solution" or clear end, you simply went out the way you came in. _A puzzle that wasn't meant for solving_ , Bruce thought. It was full of dramatic crisscrosses and untended roses that were more like weeds in their girth. Vines grew on the ground and throughout the hedges, uncut for the longest time. The roses were voluptuous and round, as big as oranges. The petals pressed out liken to someone in ecstasy, reaching their arms for the sky. They were bright, too, bold as newly drawn blood. Bruce hadn't hired a gardener in a long while, and now he felt he had no need to. He hadn't even been in that maze in what had must have been years. He mused quietly for a moment. It had a chaotic beauty. He became abruptly aware of the Joker's letter in his pocket.  
  
He looked back to the drawing room with its rectangular armchairs and new age style. Books were neatly placed in a looming bookcase on the far wall, ordered by color, volume, and size. How Alfred managed to do that, Bruce didn't know. Everything was so peaceful here, peaceful and quiet. Orderly, neat. Lovely in its logic. Bruce sat back down in his armchair and crossed his legs, uncrossed them, then crossed them again. He looked out the window.  
  
Something didn't feel right, even in this rare moment of quiet. Dusk was falling on Gotham. He looked at the sky. The clouds were moving over to the other side of the city. Good, he thought, Gotham could use it.  
  
He stood up with finality, off on a regular patrol of the city. Bruce had no idea what he was looking for, but he was going to find it.

* * *

  
  
The Joker lifted his head slowly. The sound of footsteps awoke him from his meditation. He unclasped his hands.  
  
They didn't speak. The young ones hardly ever do. Maybe it was because they hadn't accepted as anything more than a dream, or maybe because there was nothing to say.  
  
He felt a sharp kick to his side. He began to laugh low and loud. Did they even recognize him? They paused for a minute, but not long before striking him again, this time with a pipe. It knocked the wind out of him. He began to sit up with a wheeze. He chuckled, a trail of blood dripping from his mouth.  
  
"Come on, man. Just give us your money. We don't want any trouble."  
  
Maybe it was the dark of night. Maybe that's why they couldn't see his smile, cheek to cheek. Glinting teeth, busted lip. Him licking up the blood.  
  
"Hit me," he commanded. They looked at each other.  
  
"Man, if this is some BDSM-type shit, we ain't interested."  
  
" _ **HIT ME!**_ ", the Joker snarled. They stepped back in a moment's fear.  
  
The leader of the pack shrugged. "If it's what he wants...", he paused, "I'm willing to oblige." They struck him one at a time, in the ribs and the sides, until his cuts opened up and he bled like the sky above them all. He hissed and groaned, but didn't fight back. His eyes slowly drew their close like the curtains of a stage, ending one of the world's greatest performances. One of the larger fellows gave him a swift kick to the gut that swung him across the alley and landed him on his back. He nearly screamed, but he was too weak for it. Calmly, solemnly, he waited for the next blow. In his patience, he admired the feeling of water trickling down his cheeks, the whistle and honks of the nearby city streets, and the chilling cold that gave him goosebumps. Finally, he felt at peace. He waited. But nothing happened.  
  
A warm air brushed against his face. He opened his eyes for one last look at the world, the sky, and the raindrops falling on his face, but what he saw was greater still.  
  
Batman kneeled over him, nearly nose-to-nose, smiling. "Where have you been?", he meant to say, but it came out in a hushed whisper.  
  
The Joker couldn't think at first. He looked at Batman, no, Bruce, and then at the stormy sky. He thought of everything that had led him here: why he had come, why he had left. In the next moment, he knew the answer to everything. He knew what had been his purpose. "Waiting for you," the clown said, grinning.


	10. Tell Me Why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/4fndeDfaWCg?t=1m29s

Batman sighed gently, lifting the Joker up for the second time. He took the clown to the BatMobile, past the passed out, tied-up bodies of the thugs.

“A knight in shining leather bringing his damsel in disaster back to the steed, how sweet,” the Joker whispered faintly. Batman looked down at him, in a literal sense, and chuckled at the fact that the clown managed to make a funny quip even when he’d been just about pistol-whipped. The humor didn’t last long. 

Batman set the Joker down across the passenger seat, pushed back to be more comfortable. Shutting the door to the rain, he assumed the other side and began bandaging the Joker’s wounds, applying cold compresses, etc, etc, etc. He grimaced at the extensive bruising the clown had undergone. It was nothing like before, of course, he was bleeding all over then… but it was something, and it wasn’t good. 

There was a soft severity in his voice, ringing clear and true, “Tell me why you were out here,” Bruce paused unnaturally, “...again.”

The clown giggled. “Just like before, taking a lil’ _ strollllllll _ .”

Batman looked at him with sad, downcast eyes. They shared eye contact for a few moments, a truth shared somehow between them. The clown looked away, ashamed.

“I know that’s not why, Joker,” he said finally, taking the clown’s wrists in his hands to expose the bloodied palms. It was a soft gesture that left the Joker feeling raw and exposed. Bruce had never held him that way before, and he couldn’t exactly say he didn’t like it. A mild blush of guilt and embarrassment flooded his cheeks. 

" _Joker_ …”, Bruce repeated, drawing out the awkward syllables. He found himself feeling like a disappointed, worried mother, and sounding like one, too. The clown closed his heavy-lidded eyes. Bruce reached for the Joker’s hands, tenderly taking them in his. It felt awkward for him, like the first steps of a newborn lamb: awkward in its rightness.

“It was so hard when you didn’t come back,” the clown muttered low. 

“I was going to come back. I was just thinking.”

“I didn’t know that!”

“I’m sorry.”

The clown looked away again. “No, you aren’t.”

Bruce didn't know what to say to that. He was, truly and completely, apologetic, but it wasn't enough. _What more can I do?_ he thought. Then the words came to him.

“When you-- when you said  _ that _ , it was unexpected for me. I don’t do very well with the unexpected. I don’t have a response to that. I don’t have…”, he looked down at his garb, “...the armor, for it.” He paused. “I keep a response ready for everything, but I didn’t have a response for that. I couldn’t think. I was afraid of the disarray. I needed to think of what to say to you… I needed to program a response. You know, before I said the wrong thing. Or before I said everything.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, then rubbed his face. He continued, “I have kept everything structured for so long. I’ve put the whole world into boxes. I used to know where everything belonged, every category, phylum, genus imaginable… until now. You have to understand, it was the only way for me. It was like I was in the eye of a hurricane, after… Well, you know-- and ever since. Ever since I became this,” he looked down at himself.

The Joker looked at the Bat expectedly. 

“I’m not very good at this,” said the Bat. 

“ _ Obviously _ ,” the clown said, smiling.

“I’m sorry. I should have thought of you. I should have considered how it would make you feel. Especially so considering that I took you into my home, as my guest. And considering your…  _ disposition _ .” The clown didn’t comment on this.

Bruce looked blankly. He had said all that he could. Next, he begged, “Please tell me why.”

* * *

 

Exclusive Extra Content for this Chapter: <https://youtu.be/4fndeDfaWCg?t=1m29s>


	11. Realization and Actualization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So we're in the double digits now, woo! It's only been what, four months? lololol
> 
> Well, I hope you guys enjoy this one, I've really loved writing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you really liked the new chapter. It may seem a little vain, but it really inspires me to keep writing when I know people are listening. Thanks, honestly, for reading my little fic. It's probably uber obvious from my writing style, but this is the first fanfiction I've ever written. Batjokes, however, and Batman, in general, has always been one of my favorite fictional areas, so I am so happy to express my passion for this crazy little fictional world. Thanks, again and forever.

_"No."_   The Joker, simply, wouldn't let up. And it was infuriating.   
  
Batman involuntarily hissed through his teeth. Frankly, he hadn't had a conversation like this with almost anyone in the last... Well, it suffices to say a long time. Emotions (and having discussions about them) were not his forte, and the Joker wasn't making it any easier for him.  
  
There was an unnatural pause where neither of them knew what to say. The clown, in his evil genius, realized that with Bruce (with all of his detecting tendencies) would do just about anything to uncover a mystery. A mystery which the Joker and he alone had the answer to. He knew exactly how he was going to play this.  
  
"Tell me what it was like when I was gone," the Joker finally said, then, with fervor, "Tell me _everything_."  
  
"I wanted to know where you were."  
  
The clown hiked up on the seat to get a better look at the Bat. His eyes widened with excitement as he asked, anxiously, "Did you read my letter?"

 _Just every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to sleep_ , he thought, _Not only that, I've_ _kept it with me at all times this entire week._ But he wasn't going to say that. 

"Of course," Bruce replied, flatly. 

The clown quirked an eyebrow, matter-of-fact but disbelieving. "But did you crack the code?" he asked.  
  
This time it was Bruce whose eyes widened and who was leaning forward in his seat, "There was a code?"  _I knew it!_ he thought.   
  
The Joker bellowed with laughter like the madman he was. He wheezed out incomplete sentences, then, before uttering a word or more, was up in another roar of laughter from his own joke. Bruce's jaw went slack then tightened as he realized that the joke was at his expense.  
  
"No, oh my god, oh my--," another cackle from the clown, "Oh my god. No, of course not!" He giggled for a few seconds then continued, "Do you really think I'm smart enough to create a code that convoluted, one even you couldn't solve? Of course not, no, no, no, no, no, my darling."  
  
Bruce winced at the pet name, despite the fact the clown had called him it a dozen or so times before. It had taken on a new meaning all of the sudden. It made Bruce think of that night, that bath, and... but he put the brakes on that train of thought.  _Now's not the time,_ he thought.  
  
The Joker frowned, noticing Bruce's aversion. He felt the sudden urge to call him out on that fact and start wailing and crying like he usually did when he was upset, but something felt different. Now, he felt a sense of calm. And so, he chose to ignore the Bat's wince that had hurt him so ( _does he hate me? Why is he always so uptight around me? What did I do?_ ), for now. Instead, he repeated his previous demand.  
  
"Tell me," the Joker watched him with expectant eyes.  
  
"Well," Bruce timidly began. He couldn't think of how to explain emotional matters, so he chose to tell his story like he was at any old business meeting. He listed what happened accordingly, "Alfred and I threw out the old mattress and got a new one. We replaced the linens, too, and the fixed the wood scratches with putty. That was all on Monday. He gave me your letter (unopened, fortunately) that same day. He found it in the pillow fluff all over the floor."  
  
The clown waited, his devoted attention entirely on the Bat. Bruce coughed, forced and uncomfortable.  
  
"I didn't go anywhere or do anything, really. I didn't go to any parties or have dinner with lady activewear models. I just go to the office when they need me then go home," Bruce smiled shyly, "It isn't really what you read in _Gotham Now_."  
  
The clown pouted his lip. "You're telling me my trashy gossip magazines aren't reliable?"  
  
Bruce chuckled under his breath. "While you're having a reality check it might interest you to know I'm not having an affair with my secretary either," he said, a small smile still on his lips, barely there if you weren't looking for it.  _I didn't even notice she was flirting with me... and I think I'm starting to realize why,_  he thought as an aside. "And I don't mean Alfred."  
  
The Joker doubled over in laughter, leaving Bruce wondering if he had ever told a joke to the clown before. He realized, for the first time, he had meant to be funny. Bruce started laughing too, deep and firm. It was a pleasing sound.  
  
After a little while, the giggles surpassed and the two were left breathing a little more heavily than before and in silence. This was new territory for them both, and the tension was thick.  
  
They looked at each other and then looked away, both waiting for the other to say something. The only sound was the trickling water on the pavement outside. Bruce gazed out the window at the pouring rain, drawing his mind back to that rose maze in his garden, chaotic and beautiful and confusing all at once. Thinking of how close he had gotten to losing the focus (he couldn't believe he was calling the clown that) of his life. Thinking of how Gotham wasn't the only one that needed the rain.  
  
It was all too inspiring. What happened next was unique, unknown, unnatural and phenomenal: Bruce decided to speak first.  
  
"I was worried that you were going to hurt yourself again," Bruce muttered, closing his eyes, folding his hands in his lap. He felt too much like that eight-year-old again, attending his parent's funeral and feeling numb and vulnerable. He had gotten so close to losing the clown, too.  
  
"You would have had one less criminal to worry about," the Joker said, trying his best to make light of it.  
  
Bruce turned to the clown curtly and snapped, "I value human life, Joker." _I value yours_ , he thought.  
  
The clown nearly jumped. He turned away, grumpy now from being chastised.  
  
"It's a good thing I'm barely human," he snapped back.  
  
"Don't say that." It wasn't a demand, but a beg. The clown couldn't hear the distinction in his voice.  
  
"It's true."  
  
"Joker..." Bruce began, unsure of himself.  
  
"What?" the clown demanded.  
  
Bruce looked away, first out the window then at his hands fiddling in his lap. Slowly, he pronounced the words, "I do not like it when you say things like that. It..." he gritted his teeth, despising the words, _God, don't make me say it_ , "...hurts me, when you say those things about yourself."  
  
The Joker felt like he had just witnessed a) Haley's Comet and b) a solar eclipse while finding out he had a) won the lottery and b) been accepted to Harvard University. He blinked dumbly.  
  
"What the hell was that?" the clown demanded, fists clenched. He narrowed his eyes at the Bat and flared his nostrils, near furious. He sat up, trembling from the pain, to get a closer look at the other man. He leaned across the center console.  
  
Bruce reeled back. "What?" he asked incredulously.  
  
The Joker grabbed Bruce by the collar, pulling him close until they were almost nose-to-nose. Bruce was too shocked to stop him. He felt the clown's faint breath touch his face and shuddered inward from the close contact.   
  
"So you think you get to judge me, huh?" the clown snarled, "After being all distant and cold and fucked up all that time?"  
  
Bruce tried to grab him by the shoulders, stuttering "I--", before being violently shoved off.  
  
"This is how I am. This is _who_ I am. You don't get to tell me --", the clown lost his breath for a second, breathing heavily. He let go of the Bat's shoulder and doubled over to catch his breath. He shuddered with a coughing fit. Bruce brought his hand to his back but was thrown off by the Joker again. He winced, surprised and hurt at the Joker's clear disdain for him. _Let me help you_ , he silently begged,  _Why does it have to be like this?_  
  
Finally, the clown lifted himself up and glared at the Bat.  
  
"Stop trying to help me! I'm not your little side project, I'm nothing for you to feel better about yourself for," Bruce felt heat and fury rise in his cheeks at this. The Joker growled, "I'm not yours to pity. I'm not yours to ignore. I'm not yours to judge. So how about you shove your pity up your--", but he was cut off by Bruce's lips gently brushing against his.

The clown's breath hitched and his eyes widened at cartoonish levels, while the Bat's lay lustily closed. He couldn't breathe or think and he was pretty certain his heart stopping beating for those spinning, wild moments. Bruce's lips were as soft and smooth as marble, just as the Joker remembered all those years prior. The clown felt his anger melt into a puddle in his belly and stay there. He groaned in satisfied release, a feeling of realization and actualization and everything under the sun washing over him all at once. He went completely limp. Bruce put his hand on the clown's back to support him, pulling him closer. For the first time that evening, he wasn't brushed off.

After what felt like a millenia of Bruce sucking on the Joker's lower lip and tasting the inside of his mouth, Bruce separated them. He leaned in lovingly close to the clown's ear, for what the latter assumed was a sweet and tender confession. The Joker whimpered like a gentle little lamb, docile and sweet. Bruce whispered, eyes closed and voice deep and smooth, "Sometimes you really need to shut the fuck up." 


	12. Butler-Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bat and the Clown become more than just those words alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to comment if you like it!! I am so appreciative of all my readers, this is my first time really, truly writing and every comment and kudos means so much. I want to become a writer someday -- and also, I love Batman and the Joker as characters, so this is one of my favorite things to do. I love to talk to you guys, so if you leave a comment, it will mean the world to me. Thanks :))))))

Bruce couldn't pinpoint the exact detail that brought on the kiss -- just as one cannot pinpoint what exactly makes a painting "a true work of art". Simply put, it was a million different things, all at once. Something about the way the Joker was yelling at him, so forcefully passionate -- he was a brilliant maelstrom in his every feeling. Tempest-tost. Those green eyes twinkling with pandemonium, that sharp jaw clenched in irritation. Those hands gripping at the collar of his suit, delicate and thin, but so purposeful and when he desired it, strong. What brought on the kiss really could have been anything, but one thing was for sure: it was something beautiful.

Wayne had been so afraid to lose the Joker before, and now all those emotions were flooding through to the surface. He had loved him bittersweetly all this time, and that was the truth. Why else would he care for him as he had? Why else would the mere idea of the clown dying in the street make his heart sink? And why else would this kiss feel so right if it were not brought upon by a million other interactions all leading to this moment?

 _Like that bathroom business_ , he thought.

Bruce pulled away from the kiss to look at the clown again, trying to take in every aspect of this moment like he was drinking a glass of water on a hot summer's day. That was to say, desperately, and for his health. The Joker's eyes blinked open to see what the disturbance was all about and shuddered a little at Bruce's intense gaze. A cold few moments passed this way until the clown pushed away nervously, averted his gaze from the other man, and restlessly combed his hair back with his fingers. The tension and anger of yesterday had dissipated completely, replaced by new tension and fresh passions.

Suddenly, both men pulled their attention to the sunlight that glittered through the car windows onto their laps and faces. In the east, the sun had begun its climb over the horizon in all its rose-fingered glory, above and beyond the skyscrapers and huts of Gotham. It crossed Bruce’s mind that they would have to leave soon or else they might be caught. Well, caught was a strong, very implicating word -- discovered was more proper to the purpose. He started the BatMobile’s engine. “We’d better get going,” he commented casually.

Anxiously, the Joker tap-tap-tapped his fingers against the center console, waiting for... something.   _What, so are we just not going to talk about that?_ he thought to himself. _But no no no no no, Mr. BruceMan is all business_ now, _of course!_ The clown clenched his fists again, revisiting all the times he had felt ignored by the Bat -- earlier that day, earlier that week, earlier that lifetime, in fact. If he thought on it too long, he would get upset in brand new, horrific ways. But God, what wasn't he risking if he blew up here and now? That kiss, _oh Lord_ , that kiss. If he blew up, he could miss out on more of those… and whatever more they might lead to. He couldn’t be angry with such a tender display of affection.He decided to remain quiet for as long as he could and preserve the moment. But then a new thought struck his mind, a bolder, viler thought: Bruce was taking him back to Arkham Asylum.

 _Was this a trick?_ he thought. It was a nasty perhaps. Oh, such a crippling thought -- what was the clown going to do, say something or not say something? To do one and not the other meant certain doom, to do the other and not the one also meant certain doom. He was pulsating with indecision and conflict. It wasn't until they were already speeding down the streets of Gotham that the clown conjured the courage to ask, "Where are we going?"

Bruce looked over to the clown, surprised that he had broken his vow of silence. He had assumed that the Joker had been processing their sudden intimacy in his own way, and like the polite gentleman Bruce was, he wanted to allow the clown that time.  "Home," he replied, easy, stretching his hand across the center console to take the Joker’s hand. The other man saw stars.

 

* * *

 

They were parked in the garage of the BatCave before the clown knew it. Bruce readied himself to exit the vehicle but was stopped by the Joker’s hand gripping his.

“Alfred’s not going to like it,” he said, tightening his hold on Bruce's hand.

Bruce, albeit a little startled by the clown’s exhibition, gave his cool reply, “Alfred’s going to get used to it.”

But the Joker didn’t let go. He was pleading with his eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

The Joker looked toward the house and then back again at Bruce, leaving something left unsaid. Perhaps he was too afraid to say it. It was then that Bruce understood. The clown had never been inside the mansion before, on invited and nonessential grounds. Before, when he was dying even, he had been restrained by the confines of rules and laws. But now, it was almost casual, almost normal. There were no rules, and if there were, they were being broken. Could the clown be trusted? It was a question both of them were asking themselves.

“It will be fine,” Bruce said after a small silence, comforting them both. “If anything happens… we can handle it. We have been through worse.”

 _We_ , the Joker thought, _what of that, that tender little “we”?_ Was it not so long ago that they were against each other, and now they were _we._ With finality, he decided: he would go.

“I have something I want to show you.”

 

* * *

After Bruce hurrying off to change out of the Batsuit (which, yes, he had been wearing this entire time), and the Joker changing into some of Bruce’s old hand-me-downs (it was from his college days, so they were all v-necks and jeans), the two were better equipped for their Wayne Mansion tour.

“Your endurance is really astonishing,” Bruce commented as they walked up the mansion’s long, elegant staircase from the BatCave. He was referring to the clown’s short recovery time. The wounds from earlier (had it been just a few hours? Neither of them could remember) were already starting to heal, and the Joker was walking around easily.

“...It might have been the vat of acid I fell into,” the Joker retorted sarcastically, raising his eyebrows, just.

“I mean, from a logical, medical, and practical perspective, that makes little to no sense, but sure,” Bruce quipped, “Or else I think we would be dipping everyone in vats of acid.”

They both smiled a little, looking away from the other. The company was nice.

Bruce escorted the Joker outside, where they were greeted by the overgrown (and in some places, rank) beauty of the Wayne Mansion garden. They followed the main brick path where Bruce guided their way. To their immediate left, the central fountain had become a little moldy and was left “off” for the indefinite future. It was not drained enough, however, so mosquitoes were growing in its swampy waters. And to their right, ivy grew up on high stone walls, collapsing at intervals, blossoming at others. Orchids and lilies scattered the place, unkept and wild. The Joker’s mouth was slightly agape.

“Haven’t had a gardener within a mile of the place, I see,” he commented slyly, almost in an effort to cover how impressed he actually was. Overgrown and rotten as it was, the garden was domineering in its majesty. It had once been a place of great (forced) beauty, every detail exactly as desired, but now… it was natural. It was wild, unrefrained, uncontrolled, uncurbed, and ultimately, it was true.

“Alfred used to keep up with it, once, back when we had more staff. Before that, it was my mother and father. But now, Alfred has gotten older, and, well… I don’t really care much about it, I guess,” Bruce replied, slowly.

The Joker nodded. There was a question posed on his lips, right on the tip of his tongue, but he was refraining himself from it. _Should I say it, or should stay quiet?_ he thought. In the end, he was inspired by the wild and natural garden and decided he too would be unkept.

With all the politeness the clown could muster, he asked, “What was it like… growing up without a mother or father?”

Bruce stopped walking and looked at the Joker.

“I didn’t.” He said.

“Oh I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant,” the Joker covered his mouth, embarrassed and a little ashamed, “I’m sorry.”

“No no, I mean -- I mean, after they died. I had Alfred,” he paused, “He raised me. He taught me how to shave and tie a tie. He took care of me. He comforted me after the death of my parents, my first heartbreak, and…” he glanced at the Joker, who was listening intently, “...other things.”

Bruce examined a stone on the ground intensely before he continued. “He was one of the closest friends of my parents. He became my father after they were gone,” he looked off sentimentally. He furrowed his eyebrows thoughtfully, “I have asked him many times if he wanted this estate. I would give him complete ownership if he wanted it, but he never has. After all, he is the one that takes care of it -- and I don’t want it. I keep telling him he doesn’t need to do the upkeep around here, but he doesn’t listen to me. I think he feels like he owes something to my family… but _he is_ my family.”

The Joker felt as if he was let in on a great secret, and he locked it away to cherish it. On the flip side, he suddenly regretted his secretary comments and the rude way he had treated the butler-father when he had stayed here. He had a newfound appreciation for him, but he had no idea what to say to such a sweet conveyance.

“It’s no surprise that you were raised by a butler,” the clown began, to which Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You’re such a gentleman, after all.”

Bruce smiled for what felt like the hundredth time. He had forgotten how nice chit-chat could be. He kept walking along the path, waving the clown forward with him. “Come on,” he said, “I want you to see the rose maze.”


	13. As Simply as the World Began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessionals go deeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like the chapter, comment please <3 It gives me so much life to hear what you guys are thinking. I adore everyone who reads this, and I love to hear from people. Y'all got no idea how much time I spent just checking in on this and you guys to see if you like it. Suffices to say: a lot.

The two idly wandered on the stone path for a half an hour or so more. The Joker was picking flowers from the stone walls and wild bushes to weave them into a flower crown. Tragically, his hands weren't nimble enough for the delicate work, and the crown crumbled to pieces. Bruce, in his infinite mercy, took the crown from the clown's hands to finish it himself. Once done, he placed it on the Joker's head, and then looked away, as if pretending he had not done it. The clown adjusted his flamboyant green locks to better suit the crown, then turned to Bruce and gave him a trophy-winning smile and thumbs-up. Bruce pretended as though he wasn't amused.

The clown, in turn, pretended to inspect a flower with piqued interest and a charming (but suspicious) whistle. He glanced at Bruce out of the corner of his eye, keeping on the act all the while. Then, without looking at the Bat, he stretched his hand out to meet his, taking Bruce's hand tightly in his own. Rubbing the pad of his thumb against Bruce's palm, the Joker kept whistling as though nothing had happened at all.

Bruce turned towards him, surprised and embarrassed (only of himself) but pleased. He was ready to make a snarky comment at the Joker's expense (all in good humor), but instead smiled to himself and pretended as if he didn't notice. The only indication he gave was a gentle squeeze of the Joker's hand.

In short (as with all romance), there was a lot of pretending.

It was utterly and completely bizarre to the both of them how the expressed romance between them had changed everything. The tension that was there before that had all but dissipated. It was as though every one of their issues had been born of the retention of their feelings: not only for each other but of the world around them. They understood each other better than before -- of course, they weren't completely in sync. It was more as though they understood each other's intentions and behavior, both from the past and moving forward. All of their little mysteries had come to a close: the Joker's attempted suicide, Bruce's escape, and the Joker's outburst were no longer to be feared. Nothing was.

New challenges, however, are always around the corner.

They both stopped along the path to meet a large, metal garden gate. Unfortunately, the gate had rusted over the years, and Bruce had to slam his shoulder into it to get the damn thing open.

“ _Such a big strong man_ ," the Joker mused in a false falsetto. Bruce smirked, fighting off the urge to flex for him, show the clown (up close) what he'd never been able to see before... He pushed away those thoughts. He hadn’t been in a romantic relationship in a while, and he found them a little embarrassing now to fantasize over. Besides, they had time enough to be sickly affectionate later on. For now, he took the Joker's hand again and said nothing. In front of them, beyond the gate, lay the rose maze, even more impressive and precious in person than from a fourth-story window.

"This place has always reminded me of you. Which is probably why I never came here, only admired it from afar for years,” Bruce mused for a moment. He added, consolingly, “Though I always wanted to."

The Joker listened with big, wide-open eyes, curious and beautiful like a child's. His lips were slightly pouted as if he was nourished by the words. The clown was unafraid to be natural in his every behavior and didn’t really care what he looked like doing it. At least, now. There was an attractive quality to it that Bruce, insecure as he was, admired. Bruce appreciated him for a few seconds, just a few, before continuing in his monologue.

"It's just so, it's..." he stumbled through the words, "It's chaotic and beautiful, and..." Bruce choked up. He was a little startled by how nervous he was all of the sudden. He brushed his knuckles against a blooming rose, and continued with new fervor, "Well, nobody tells this rose maze what to do, is my point. Nobody tells you what to do either. I couldn't if I wanted to, could I? No, you only listen to me if you want to. I... I adore that." He grimaced nervously, like one a little too afraid to express happiness. _And I’m the one always listening to everything_ , Bruce thought to himself.

The Joker wondered in awe at how highly Bruce thought of him. _And here I was thinking he thought I was just crazy_ , the clown though. The Joker gave (truly, it was a gift) the Bat one of those big, maniacal smiles of his, the really gorgeous ones. The ones that go from ear-to-ear and push his cheeks up to his eyes. Those little crinkles at their corners. The subtly raised eyebrows, as if opening up his face for the expression of more happiness. Or at least, that's what Bruce thought: the Joker became a larger presence in his happiness. He waited for the clown to say something, but nothing came. Truth be told, the Joker was so bashful about the sweet comment that he was a little speechless. He had been mostly speechless after their kiss (it had been traumatic in that way), for what must have been the first time in his life. Usually, he wouldn't shut up for a gold bar.

Bruce sat down on an ornately carved stone bench, looking up at the clown as an invitation. The Joker took him up on it. The two sat together, close but not too close, their hands loosely intwined betwixt them. It was pretty and clumsy, and new.

"You know..." Bruce began, slowly exploring those words with a million afterthoughts, "We haven't talked about our... situation, yet."

The Joker turned to him. "What do you think of it?"

"I'm a fan," Bruce replied facetiously. "But," he went on, his previous grin leaving a thoughtful frown in its wake, "When did it all start? And, how did we get here?" Truly, the Great Detective within Bruce was still kickin’, desperate for answers. 

"You're the one that kissed me,” the Joker murmured, tongue-in-cheek.  _There's an irony there_ , he thought. 

"Hey, you're the one that liked it."

The Joker turned to him, incredulous, "You're saying you didn't like it?"

"...No," Bruce teased playfully. The Joker gave him an exaggerated frown. "I'm not saying that," Bruce chided. 

There was a quiet for a moment as they both relished in that. The clown closed his eyes thoughtfully, concentrating hard. He whispered his answer to Bruce's question, the only sound around them besides the winds and their rustling against the garden leaves. With a subtle confidence, he said, "I think it has always been there beneath the surface, like plates moving beneath the Earth's crust. We could not see it, but it was the movement and ruler of our world." Bruce listened quietly, realizing how intelligent the Joker really was.  _Did he just reference plate tectonics for a metaphor?_ Bruce asked himself, surprised but mostly incredulous.  _Maybe those books were a bad idea,_  he considered, _he's getting more clever than I am._ Briefly, between these thoughts, Bruce was reminded of the confessionals of youth, and of those long conversations where you listened and were heard in return. It had been a long time since then.  

 _No,_ he decided in his thoughts,  _he's always been this terribly, horribly, fantastically clever._

“I don't think I knew it completely either,” the Jokers said next, “But I wasn't in denial of the fact that I felt something when I was with you. I wanted to be ever closer and closer to you. I felt like I understood you, and you understood me, too. We were dual opposites, two forces naturally attracted to each other." The clown paused thoughtfully, then continued, "As simply as the world began.”

 _As simply as the world began_ , Bruce thought to himself. “I used to think you were so selfish,” he commented after a little while, eyes unfocused, staring at a pebble on the ground unthinkingly. He said it like he was echoing his inner thoughts, which no one else would ever hear besides himself. That was how close they had become. 

“I am,” the Joker giggled wryly, “I just see you as an extension of myself.”

Bruce ruminated on that and found that he liked it. He liked it very much.

 _Wait, why isn’t he saying anything?_ the clown thought suddenly. Then he realized his statement might have given offense. _Shit, did I compare him to me? God, he probably thinks I’m an egotistical asshole._ The Joker looked at Bruce with vulnerable eyes, then spoke with a rush, jumbling his words together. “But don’t think I mean you’re like me. I know we’re as different as two people can be, you’re all anti-crime and I’m… not. I just mean… I care about you. And if you wanted me to give up the life I’ve lived...Well.” The Joker tugged at his collar nervously, afraid to say more.

Bruce smiled without any shyness now. He squeezed the clown’s hand tightly. _We’re more alike than you think_.


End file.
